While Mortals Sleep_ Unpublished Short Fiction - Kurt Vonnegut [45]
“Turn down this street here?” said the chauffeur.
“Just follow the star,” I said.
“It’s a light, a goddamn electric light that anybody can hang over his house if he’s got the money,” said Hackleman.
“Follow the goddamn electric light,” I said.
Gribbon was waiting for us, wearing a tuxedo, and he opened the car door himself. “Gentlemen—Merry Christmas.” His eyes down, his hands folded piously across his round belly, he led us down a path, bounded by ropes, that led around the display and back to the street again. He passed by the corner of the mansion, just short of the point where we would be able to see the display. “I like to think of it as a shrine,” he said, “with people coming from miles around, following the stars.” He stepped aside, motioning us to go ahead.
And the dumbfounding panorama dazzled us again, looking like an outdoor class in calisthenics, with expressionless figures bobbing, waving their arms, flapping their wings.
“Gangster heaven,” whispered Hackleman.
“Oh, my,” said the mayor.
The chairman of the Real Estate Board looked appalled, but cleared his throat and recovered gamely. “Now, there’s a display,” he said, clinging doggedly to his integrity.
“Where’d you get the new figures?” said Hackleman.
“Wholesale from a department-store supply house,” said Gribbon.
“What an engineering feat,” said the manufacturer.
“Took four engineers to do it,” said Gribbon proudly. “Whoever swiped the figures left the neon halos behind, thank God. They’re rigged so I can make ’em blink, if you think that’d look better.”
“No, no,” said the mayor. “Mustn’t gild the lily.”
“Uh … do I win?” said Gribbon politely.
“Hmmm?” said the mayor. “Oh—do you win? Well, we have to deliberate, of course. We’ll let you know this evening.”
No one seemed able to think of anything more to say, and we shuffled back to the limousine.
“Thirty-two electric motors, two miles of wire, nine hundred and seventy-six lightbulbs, not counting neon,” said Gribbon as we pulled away.
“I thought we were going to just hand him the scroll right then and there,” said the real estate man. “That was the plan, wasn’t it?”
“I just couldn’t bring myself to do it then,” sighed the mayor. “Suppose we could stop somewhere for a stirrup cup.”
“He obviously won,” said the manufacturer. “We wouldn’t dare give the prize to anyone else. He won by brute force—brute dollars, brute kilowatts, no matter how terrible his taste is.”
“There’s one more stop,” said Hackleman.
“I thought this was a one-stop expedition,” said the manufacturer. “I thought we’d agreed on that.”
Hackleman held up a card. “Well, it’s a technicality. The official deadline for entries was noon today. This thing came in by special delivery about two seconds ahead of the deadline, and we haven’t had a chance to check it.”
“It certainly can’t match this Fleetwood thing,” said the mayor. “What could? What’s the address?”
Hackleman told him.
“Shabby neighborhood out on the edge of town,” said the real estate man. “No competition for our friend Fleetwood.”
“Let’s forget it,” said the manufacturer. “I’ve got guests coming in, and …”
“Bad public relations,” said Hackleman gravely. It was startling to hear the words coming from him, enunciated with respect. He’d once said that the three most repellent forms of life were rats, leeches, and public relations men … in descending order.
To the three important men in the back seat, though, the words were impressive and troubling. They mumbled and fidgeted, but didn’t have the courage to fight.
“Let’s make it quick,” said the mayor, and Hackleman gave the driver the card.
Stopped by a traffic signal, we came abreast of a group of cheerful searchers, who called to us, asking if we knew where the holy family was hidden.
Impulsively, the mayor leaned out of the window. “You won’t find them under that,” he said, waggling